Whether or No
by abigail-in-space
Summary: Sam and Frodo adjust to life back in the Shire. A series of oneshots.
1. chapter 1

**(movie-verse (with mayhaps some book elements?)) this might turn into a series of oneshots but idk man.**

 **thx for ur reads and reviews!**

The first night since the return home that Frodo was sober enough to remember anything, all he could remember was not being able to sleep. He had an extensive mental list of everything that contributed to this unfortunate fact. For one thing, his mattress swallowed him up, and–for another–his nice, feather pillows suffocated him. The wooden structure of the old Hobbit-hole creaked and groaned as it always had, but it had never bothered Frodo as it did that night. These were only a very few of the things that kept his eyes open wide nearly all throughout the night.

On the very few occasions when he _did_ manage to nod off, he would jolt right back awake, clutching wildly at his chest only to remember that there was nothing there save his night-shirt.

The sun rose over the Shire as she was supposed to. Many decent folk rose at dawn: the Maggots, the Cottons, the Gamgees… Sam would be up and already in the garden. As for Frodo, he was not particularly fond of getting up while the sun was new, and yet he couldn't find any reason to stay in bed.

Tired and not far from lying down on the floor and trying to sleep there, Frodo pulled himself out of bed, dressed, and shuffled into the kitchen where the sound of garden clippers could be heard. His prediction had proved true. Just out the window, the top of Sam's head could be seen--there was a green leaf stuck in his strawberry-blonde hair. Faithful Sam never missed a day's work, even when they had both drunk their fill of ale and Frodo assured him he would understand if he decided to stay home.

Frodo made his way out the door. "Good morning, Sam," he greeted as he walked towards his friend.

Sam, on his knees next to a patch of marigolds, looked up at Frodo with a wide-eyed smile. "G'mornin', Mr. Frodo," he returned. "You're up a bit early."

There was no point in bothering Sam with the details of his sleepless night- for Sam would be _quite_ bothered if he heard of it. "I suppose I am," Frodo agreed. "But then, _you're_ _always_ up a bit early."

Sam looked back and forth between Frodo and the flowers he was tending to. "Well, you know I don't mind it none, Mr. Frodo. It's just what I've always done, and so it seems proper to always do, if you take my meaning."

"I do, Sam," Frodo assured him, casually reaching to pull the leaf out of Sam's hair and stick it in the pocket of his waistcoat. "Have you had breakfast yet?"

Sam shook his head and turned back to his work. "No, I've not had breakfast, but I was meanin' to go back home to get some just as soon as I was finished with these stubborn weeds, here," he said, yanking on one of the said weeds for good measure.

"Don't be ridiculous," Frodo said with a warm smile as he turned back to the house. "You're going to have breakfast with me. I'll make some for the both of us."

"Now, that's awful kind of you, Mr. Frodo, but–"

At the door, Frodo turned back to Sam. "I won't hear any objections, Samwise Gamgee. I'm sure you're hungry; so you might as well stop a while to eat."

Slowly, Sam stood and brushed his hands on his trousers. "Well, if you say so, and there's no changin' your mind..."

"Certainly not," Frodo insisted as Sam walked through the door.

It was good to be busy again, Frodo noted as he gathered eggs, bacon, and the pans he needed to cook them. He had done little since he returned home save work on the book he had promised Bilbo, and at times, he would even forget to fix himself anything to eat–most unnatural for a Hobbit, as Gandalf would say. Now, he found that cooking breakfast for himself and Sam revived him a little. He had been feeling sluggish all morning.

One disadvantage that Frodo could have gone without was the difficulty he had in gripping things. He kept expecting his finger to be there–he even imagined he felt it, but the clang of the pan on the ground told him what his imagination would not.

"Frodo! What happened?" Sam questioned.

"I'm alright, Sam," Frodo assured him, picking up the pan and flexing his mutilated hand once before returning to work. "I've just dropped the frying pan is all… There wasn't anything in it."

Before Frodo could blink, Sam was behind him, gently shouldering him aside and grabbing the handle of the pan. "That's alright, Mr. Frodo. I'll take over from here. It's a good start you've got."

"Sam…" Frodo began.

Sam got a stern look in his eye. "Beggin' your pardon, but as I recall, you've brought me in here to rest a bit. And you can be sure I won't be able to rest for one second if I know you're troubling yourself on my account."

Arguing with Sam was pointless-that much was evident. Frodo stepped aside and let Sam continue. "Very well. But I hope you know that I have every intention of making it up to you."

"And so you will," Sam agreed as he washed his hands in the water basin. "Once you've got the hang of everything, that is."

Frodo sat down at the table. As much as he appreciated Sam's confidence, he found he could not be sure he would ever "get the hang" of anything. Much had changed since his burden had been destroyed. Even sleeping with a sober mind had passed into the realm of impossibility, it seemed.

These dark thoughts were quickly subdued as Sam sat in front of him with two plates of eggs and bacon as only Sam could make them. Frodo sliced some bread with strawberry jam for them with a little difficulty, but Sam permitted it, and they enjoyed the companionable silence for some time.

"I wonder sometimes..." Sam broke the silence first. "I wonder what everyone else gets up to. The rest of the Fellowship, I mean. You'd figure they'd have a good lot to think and do. I reckon they've even got more adventures to have. And here we sit, eatin' breakfast like we haven't just come home from the end of the world." There was something peculiar in his tone.

"Do you miss it, Sam?" Frodo asked.

Sam shrugged. "No," he answered. "Leastways, not the dangerous parts, and there's no goin' back to the parts I liked." And that was all he would say on the subject.

The conversation shifted to many different subjects, each simple and pleasant. There was no mention of the Old Burden, and all seemed to be as it had been before. Sam didn't seem to be having the same trouble readjusting to the Shire (he was more or less up-to-date with the goings-on of their neighbors) and made sure to bring Frodo in on every piece of news. There was hardly anything about crops and parties that would linger in Frodo's mind for more than a day or so. It was the crinkles in the corners of Sam's eyes as he smiled wide and the laughter bubbling in Frodo's chest–sights and feelings he hadn't seen or felt for what felt like an age–that would last. Peace and quiet that had returned to Bag End if only for an hour or so. The world was behind, and home was an arm's-reach away.

Soon, breakfast ended, and they both decided against a second one. (Neither seemed to be as hungry as other Hobbits, nowadays.) So, Sam returned to work, and Frodo returned to his book.

Morning passed to afternoon, and afternoon passed to evening. Sam left, and Farmer Maggot came by with well-wishes and an armful of carrots for a present, and was gone. There was no word from Pippin or Merry who had scarcely left the Green Dragon since the return. So, after supper and a brief walk around the neighborhood, Frodo went straight to bed.

And still, after a full day without a wink of sleep to run on, Frodo found that he would not be dozing off any time soon. This time, a new impediment came to light: it was cold. On his journey, he had slept under worse conditions, but this was a cold that surpassed the physical realm. It was the cold of an empty place--with silence as a companion--that kept Frodo from sleeping. Even when the world seemed to be ending, he had not felt such a thing.

As he tossed and turned, he kept in mind not to kick Sam, but Sam wasn't there. He listened for the sound of Sam's snores, but no such sound came. There was no chain on his neck; there was no earth underneath him. Every thing was in such a way that, under normal circumstances, he would've slept and overslept. Yet, he couldn't.

Determining there was no point in lying awake on a mattress he didn't even like, Frodo rose and wandered outside. If he left Bag End, there was no telling where he would go. He might leave and never return, and the thought did cross his mind. He was beginning to understand Bilbo's desire to leave the Shire and live the rest of his days with the elves.

The less extreme part of him considered the fact that it certainly wasn't too late to visit the Green Dragon and drink so much ale that it would make no difference to him whether he slept on a bed or the tangled roots of a great tree. In fact, it hardly made a difference to him then. After all, there was at least one tree in the East Farthing Wood that he had managed several times to sleep either in or under. And so, he determined to try it.

It wasn't a long walk to East Farthing--or at least, it wasn't longer than Frodo had recently become accustomed to. In some peculiar way, he found being out of doors was more relaxing than being in his own home, though he felt ridiculous for thinking it. All he had wished for on his journey was to return to a safe and peaceful Shire, and now that his wish was granted, he could not enjoy it.

When at last Frodo found a tree he knew, he settled himself between the roots and managed to at least close his eyes, though he couldn't sleep just yet. It was a chill night, indeed. Even if he had heaps of blankets to pile on, Frodo was sure the cold would bite straight through them. All he could do was shiver and curl up.

"Mr. Frodo?"

Frodo's eyes shot open at Sam's voice. At first, he thought he had only imagined it--he was so used to that being the first sound he heard when he woke. But he hadn't. His Sam was standing not three inches from his feet. The light that the full moon gave told him so.

"Sam?" The exhaustion in Frodo's voice surprised even himself.

"Pardon me, sir, I didn't mean to disturb you," Sam apologized. "I'm just... surprised to find you here, is all."

Frodo nodded, and a silence passed before he decided he ought to explain. "I was trying to sleep."

"I gathered that, sir, and I'm awful sorry."

Frodo sat up a bit and shook and shook his head. "Don't be sorry. I was only trying, and I was failing anyway. What brings you here?"

Sam looked over his shoulder and back to Frodo. "If I'm honest with you, sir, this is where _I've_ been coming to sleep the past few nights. It's been a mite easier than tryin' to sleep in my own bed."

It made sense suddenly... Frodo felt foolish for assuming that his faithful Sam had recovered from the journey more easily than he had. "Oh, Sam," Frodo sighed. "Why didn't you tell me? I would've made sure you had days off: as many as you needed."

"Well, beggin' your pardon, but that's just why I didn't want to say anything. I've been your next-door neighbor for as long as I can remember, but since we've come back... well bein' next door just seems too far away. I don't think I would've been able to stand it if you'd made me stay at home all day."

Frodo smiled wide and made room next to him for Sam. Almost like second nature, Sam sat beside him (though they were both lying down more than they were sitting up.) "Well, then, that's just it," Frodo remarked. "You'll have to move into Bag End. I won't have an ill-rested gardener, you know; not while my lovely marigolds are still alive."

"But what about you, Mr. Frodo? My guess is you've not been sleepin' neither. My movin' in won't help you none."

"I do believe you're wrong about that Sam," Frodo yawned, turning his back to Sam. "But helping me isn't the important thing. I'll give you some time to think it over, but I hope you'll agree. Let's try to get some sleep at long last."

There was only silence for a little while as Sam made himself comfortable. Then, he spoke in little more than a whisper. "Y'know, Mr. Frodo, I've been thinking about somethin' my old Gaffer said..."

Frodo turned over to face Sam nose to nose. "What did Gaffer say?"

Sam shrugged. "Well, he was going on about that old knee of his... It was ten years since his accident just yesterday."

"Ten years?" Frodo said. "It seems he's always had that limp."

Sam nodded. "But he said that weeks and months after it happened he didn't want to admit that it was botherin' him at all, and he tried to do things he oughtn't've all while he was on the point of agony. I've a notion that if he'd admitted he was hurtin' and gotten the help he needed early on, he wouldn't have a limp--least, not one to speak of."

There was no need to ask what Sam meant by this. "Sam," Frodo mumbled. "I won't say that our return has been easy, but I don't want you to worry about me. I'll be alright, even if I have to sleep under this tree for the rest of my time here."

"Don't say that, Frodo. Because if you're going to come out here every night, then so will I. And you know what Gaffer would say if he heard that I preferred sleepin' under a tree than in a proper bed."

"He'd say you were cracked," Frodo laughed.

"And I'd never live it down," Sam finished with a smile. Only a few seconds passed before he spoke again in a much softer tone. "Don't say that helpin' you isnt important, Mr. Frodo. It's the most important thing I know. I'll move in and join you sure enough, even if it may take some time. But I've got to know that you'll let me help you with everything--even it's just makin' breakfast. Goodness knows you've gone through enough to deserve some rest."

Frodo gripped Sam's arm. "But so have you, Sam."

A wrinkle creased Sam's brow. "Then we help each other," he decided sternly. "It's what we've always done, and so it's what we'll keep on doin'. Now, try to get some sleep."

Sam shut his eyes and made that note the end of the discussion. Frodo did not know what else to do but smile, kiss Sam's nose, and finally go to sleep. He found that the night was not as cold as he had thought before...

Frodo woke the next morning under the afternoon Sun. Sam was already gone, and the familiar and comforting sound of the busy Shire could be heard from every direction. He took his time to stand and start home, reveling in the feeling of being well-rested without having a headache from ale. When he reached for the long-gone Burden and found it missing, he did not feel the same hollowness as he had. And he found himself once again longing for his home.

From outside Bag End's gate, Frodo could hear Sam whistling that song that Bilbo and Gandalf used to sing about the endless Road. "Good morning, Sam!" Frodo called as he climbed the steps to the door.

"Good morning, Mr. Frodo!" Sam returned ritualistically.

Frodo went inside and changed. The leaf that he had pulled from Sam's hair the day before was still in his waistcoat pocket. He took it out and looked at it a little while, twisting it around on its stalk before pressing it between the pages of his book.

Once he had a bite to eat, Frodo went outside again and found his gardener busy with some pretty red flower that Frodo couldn't name. "Did you sleep well last night, Sam?"

Sam nodded. "Better than I have in a while," he answered.

"I hope I didn't kick you too much," Frodo continued.

Sam offered a half-smile. "Well, you always did kick a little, Mr. Frodo, but I don't mind. I've got used to it, I think. In fact, it's been hard sleepin' without it."

Frodo laughed. "Sam, my dear Sam...Where would I be without you?"

 **And that's the story of how Frodo decided to stay in the Shire with Sam forever and ever the end**


	2. chapter 2

**tolkien: frodo left for the grey havens after only one year in the shire**

 **me: i can't read suddenly i don't know**

"It's just our luck, Mr. Frodo," Sam grumbled as he fastened the buttons on his waistcoat. "That's all it is: miserable luck. I don't expect anything good'll come of it at all."

The particular miserable luck to which Sam referred was this: on the day before the Gamgees were to go on their annual trip to visit the Cottons, both Elanor and little Frodo happened to come down with wretched colds. Dear Rose was too anxious to move them from Bag End, but it was too late to cancel the trip. Sam had been fretting about the whole ordeal from the beginning of it to that moment in the living room, and it was useless to try to comfort him.

That would not stop Frodo from trying, however. He handed Sam his cloak and smiled. "You've had enough of mountains without making them out of molehills, Sam," he said gently.

On overhearing the conversation, Merry (who had agreed to help Frodo take care of the little ones) entered the drawing room with little Elanor on his hip and said, "Listen to Frodo, Sam. There's nothing you've got to worry about that he and I don't have taken care of."

Elanor looked with curiosity at the scene unfolding before her, and must have recognized that her father was leaving. She reached out with her chubby hands and sweetly asked, "Cad I go?" Her poor, little nose was stuffed again.

Sam's face grew soft, and he reached out to gently tug one of his little girl's curls. "Not this time, love, but I'll be back as soon as I can manage," he promised, and turned to Merry. "She'll start crying if she sees us leave without her."

Merry gave a curt nod and made Elanor face him. "What do you say, Miss Ellie, that you and I wander into the kitchen and see if we can't find ourselves a bite to eat?"

Elanor's eyes glittered at the mention of food, and she nodded eagerly. So, the two friends did as they planned.

"I won't lie, Mr. Frodo," Sam sighed. "I'm awful nervous about leavin' her and the baby all alone."

Frodo grabbed Sam's arm and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "They won't be alone. I _have_ watched them before, if you'll remember."

"Oh, I know. But beggin' your pardon, Mr. Frodo, but it's not _you_ I'm doubtin'," he answered, with a pointed nod in the direction of the kitchen.

At that moment, Merry's voice sounded. "Oh, that? That's pipeweed, lass, but you're not to touch one leaf 'til you're at least ten years old."

After heaving a deep sigh, Sam charged into the kitchen, yelling, "If you're to be smokin' Mr. Merry, I'd prefer you didn't do it in my kitchen!"

Alone in the drawing room, Frodo listened as Sam carefully explained that smoking in the kitchen (among other places) was strictly forbidden and smiled. It had been three years since Sam had moved into Bag End, and after all that time it was still a wonderful thing to know that he was nearby. Yet, there were times when–as much as it pained him–he could not have Sam around. A twinge of pain shot through his shoulder even as he thought of it, and the smile faded.

Sam returned from the kitchen, though he seemed no less anxious than before. "Well," he said, glancing backwards. "This is it I suppose. Rosie's already waitin' outside."

Frodo nodded and embraced Sam. Parting was always the most difficult thing to get past, but he could sleep better knowing Sam remained oblivious to everything that went on during the anniversary of Weathertop.

Sam left Bag End, ever looking behind him until he could be seen no more.

With a sigh, Frodo turned back into the house. In the kitchen, Elanor absently nibbled a biscuit as she listened to Merry recount the tale of wonderful Treebeard and the great Entmoot. This was Elanor's favorite tale - mainly due to the different voices Merry would employ while telling it.

"'Hoom, hmm! Come now! Not so hasty!'" Merry was saying now in a deep, wheezy voice. "'You call yourselves hobbits? But you should not go telling just anybody. You'll be letting out your own right names if you're not careful.'"

And whether or not she understood the story, Elanor leaned back in her chair and laughed with her eyes squeezed shut.

Frodo smiled at the scene and moved deeper into the house to the nursery where the baby lay asleep in his cradle. The poor thing was having trouble breathing, and it was important to check every now and again that he hadn't rolled over onto his stomach. Luckily, he hadn't, and seemed to be at peace for the time being.

It was strange to think that Little Frodo was already three months old. He remembered Little Frodo's first morning like it was yesterday. Sam had stood in the middle of the sitting room, giggling as he counted and re-counted each of the baby's fingers and toes just as he had when Elanor was born.

Then, Sam had walked to where Frodo sat in the corner of the room, placed the newborn gently in his arms, and knelt next to the chair-resting his chin on the arm of it. "Look Mr. Frodo," he had said, reaching over to caress the top of Little Frodo's respectably curly head. "His hair's black as raven feathers; there's no mistakin' it! It's plain as plain he didn't get it from me or Rosie. He must've somehow known who we were naming him for."

Frodo had smiled down at the little bundle and said,"He's wonderful, Sam." That much was true. From the top of his head to the tips of his hairless toes, Little Frodo was a wonder and a miracle, and that's what proved he was a Gamgee through and through. Well, that and the fact that he was definitely going to wind up with Sam's nose and probably his ears, too.

Frodo had looked over to Sam for a proper comparison, and saw tears on his face accompanied by the brightest of smiles. How wonderful it had been to see tears of joy after once crawling in a dry land on a desolate mountain where all tears seemed an evil. How wonderful it had been to see such a moment after a time where hope had once seemed lost. Frodo kissed the top of Sam's head and, grinning, turned back to the baby.

It was easy to lose oneself in memory, but a sudden, sharp pang in Frodo's shoulder sent him crashing down to reality. He cried aloud, and gripped his shoulder. The image of an old and hollow face flashed before his eyes, and the Eye that had been gone for years pushed its way into rememberance.

Then it was over, and Little Frodo was awake and crying. "Oh dear," Frodo sighed, and lifted the baby out of his cradle-ignoring the strain it put on his wound. "I've woken you, haven't I? Shh, shh..."

Merry was at the door. "Frodo, what's wrong?"

"Where's Elanor?" Frodo asked, expertly dodging the question.

"I've left her in the kitchen for a moment," Merry answered, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. "She won't get into trouble too quickly."

The corner of Frodo's mouth twitched upward as he lowered himself onto the rocking chair. "She may surprise you, Merry. I'm afraid she's overfond of opening the front door."

Merry glanced anxiously over his shoulder, as though he could picture the little girl opening the door and wandering right onto the road-laughing all the way. "Well, I suppose I'll go check on her..." With that, he turned back to the kitchen.

"Bring her in here," Frodo called after him. "She has plenty of toys to keep her occupied."

It wasn't long before Elanor skipped into the nursery with Merry behind her. By this time, Little Frodo's cries had turned to pitiful whimpers, and Elanor could sense her brother's distress like a pony could sense fear. She bounded straight to where Frodo sat, laid her hand on the baby's forehead, and looked Frodo seriously in the eye. "He's sick," she told Frodo matter-of-factly.

"And so are you," Frodo reminded her, resting his hand on her forehead in turn.

Elanor shrugged as though the fact didn't affect her much and turned to Merry. "Merry!" she called and ran to take his hand and drag him to her dollhouse in the corner of the room.

As Elanor busied herself with instructing Merry on just how a proper doll behaves, Little Frodo's eyes began to blink shut, and soon he was asleep. With the children at peace and Merry keeping a watchful eye on both, Frodo laid the baby back in his cradle and slipped quietly away into his room.

It was only the evening of the fifth of October, yet the long anniversary of Weathertop had begun. Frodo often found it difficult to prepare for it every year, always hoping against hope that the day would pass over without incident. He withdrew the white gem the Lady Arwen had given him, slipped its chain over his head, and gripped it until his knuckles were white in turn. There was no question that this year would be one of the worst years, if only for the reason that miserable luck never went away.

He sat on his bed, taking deep breaths in and out. If he could only postpone the pain and the delirium for a few hours more... Yet, it was no use. Unable to fight it any longer, he slipped easily from consciousness into frightening visions of times past.

The searing pain in his shoulder was only the precursor to the suffering Frodo experienced. His throat was dry, his heart pounded in his chest with merciless ferocity, and his mind was infiltrated by the haunting image of the Great Eye.

But were they even memories at all? It seemed that it was the Shire that was far away, and the memory of it was growing dimmer by the second. All was fear and darkness that not the brightest light could penetrate. He reached out for Sam. Sam should be there. Sam was always there.

Then he remembered. _"Go home, Sam,"_ he had said. His own cold words rung in his ears. Sam had been crying.

Why had he sent Sam home?

He needed Sam.

The white-hot pain in his shoulder contrasted the rest of him, frozen stiff from head to toe. The agony grew unbearable. He clutched the chain around his neck. He could use the Ring, wield its power, make it stop. He could bring Sam back. The world would forgive him just this once. All he needed was the Ring.

For ages it seemed, the nightmares lasted until, slowly, he once more became aware of himself. He was lying on a bed. There was a soft glow coming from the fireplace. This was his own room. His own home. Bag End. The anniversary of Weathertop was over.

"Mr. Baggins?" a voice called. He knew that voice. It was Rose. "Mr. Baggins, are you alright?"

Frodo opened his eyes long enough to catch a glimpse of Rose. There were no more illusions. "I'll be alright in one moment, Rose," he sighed.

"What happened?" she questioned.

He couldn't avoid answering that question much longer. Yet, all he said was, "Where's Sam?"

"Just outside, talking to the children. You gave them a real fright, Mr. Baggins. Mr. Brandybuck sent word as soon as he found you in that state. He told Sam you were asking for him, and he's been worried sick. Should I send him in?"

Frodo nodded. "Yes, I think you ought to." There was no more concealing his struggle from Sam, though he wished he could have put it off revealing it a while longer.

Rosie left to do as she was bid, and shorty afterwards, Sam walked in slowly by himself. He wouldn't meet Frodo's eyes. It was some time before he spoke. "I don't suppose I need to ask what happened," he said. "I feel like a fool, really, not realizin' what day it was."

"You haven't done anything wrong, Sam," Frodo assured him. "I always made sure you were gone around this time."

At this, Sam did meet Frodo's eyes. His own were watering, and his eyebrows were furrowed to create creases in his forehead. "But why'd you keep it from me, Mr. Frodo?" he asked, his voice breaking. "Why wouldn't you tell me all this time?"

"Please, don't be angry, Sam," Frodo whispered.

"How can I not be angry?" Sam questioned as he walked to Frodo's bedside and took hold of his hand. "You've saved the whole world, Mr. Frodo, and yet you suffer more than anyone ever ought to. I'm angry near every day that you haven't got everything you've rightly deserved."

Frodo shook his head. "I've got you Sam. You're more than I deserve."

"If you really think that, then you don't know your own worth," Sam said. "But why would you keep me away, then?"

Frodo skimmed his thumb across the back of Sam's hand. "I didn't want to burden you with it, I suppose," he answered. "You have just the sort of happy life we left the Shire to save. This... wound of mine is a shadow of a darker time that you should not have to remember."

"And you should?" Sam questioned. He took a deep breath before continuing, tears beginning to spill onto his cheeks. "I don't want to forget everything we did, Mr. Frodo. Mordor was a wasteland, sure enough. It was hot and uncomfortable, and it had an unnatural way of crushing hope you didn't even know you had. We suffered all the time, and you most of all. But what I choose to remember of it was bein' close to you, and holding your hand just like I am now, and dreamin' of the world we'd come back to when all was said and done. I remember, it was seein' you keepin' on that told me to I had to take another step forward even when I felt like turnin' back. You saved the whole world, Mr. Frodo, and you saved me right along with it. And now the only thing I want in the world is to help you. That was what we agreed when I first started livin' here. We help each other, and you've been hurting all this time without letting your Sam help you."

Now, it was Frodo whose voice cracked. "Oh, Sam..." he choked.

For a moment, all they could manage was to stay exactly where they were and let the tears fall. With eyes squeezed shut, Sam held their clasped hands against his cheek as if the whole world was crumbling around them once more.

When, finally, the crying subsided, he looked up at Frodo and asked, "Does it always hurt? Your shoulder, I mean."

"Most always," Frodo sighed with a nod. "Lord Elrond told me that it would never heal completely. I imagine I'll always have days like this one."

"That's just morbid thinking, Mr. Frodo," Sam said. "Lord Elrond is a great deal wiser in the ways of Elvish medicine than I could ever dream of being, for sure and certain, but I reckon I'd have him if we were to go head-to-head over Shire medicine. Now, I can't make any promises, but I might be able to help the pain a little. And if you'll tell me when it starts to get bad, we may even be able to make the Weathertop anniversary more tolerable than its been."

Frodo smiled. "You may certainly try, Sam," he allowed.

With a nod, Sam rose to his feet and kissed the top of Frodo's head. "I'll go see what kind of herbs I can pull together."

That said, Sam left the room, leaving Frodo alone with his thoughts. His heart ached for Sam's optimism. He took a deep breath of air - Shire air - and wished once more that it could settle in his lungs like it once had: cool, clean, and filled with the promise of peaceful life. Yet, deep in his heart, he was beginning to understand that there was no more ignoring the truth. The Shire was no longer his home.

 **A/N: Hey! Hope you enjoyed! There will be only one or two more oneshots in this series, and yeah they're gonna hurt.**


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